


In Kitty’s Flat, on the Couch, with the Handcuffs

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre Reichenbach, flangst, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This came from an idea to make a sexy version of Clue/Cluedo using Sherlock characters. Instead of guessing who killed who with what and where, you determine who fucked who, where, on or with what.<br/>I have no idea how it went from that, to what it is.<br/>Missing scene from Reichenbach Fall, where John and Sherlock are waiting in Kitty's flat for her to return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Kitty’s Flat, on the Couch, with the Handcuffs

_“John.”_

“No, Sherlock.” 

“You don’t know what I was going to say.” 

“That’s your ‘I’m bored, go commit a clever crime’ _John._ ” 

“How could you go commit a clever crime when we’re handcuffed?” 

“Why haven’t you picked the handcuffs yet?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away, a not entirely effective avoidance technique when they were handcuffed together. 

“You bragged to Lestrade and the Yard that you could pick handcuffs, didn’t you?” 

“It’s not bragging if it’s true. How was I to know they’d remember and bring the double-lock cuffs?” 

“The yard is full of idiots, but idiots with a grudge against you. Of course they will remember something like that.” 

“I had other things on my mind.” Sherlock sulked into the silence of Kitty Riley's flat, glaring at the streetlight that was their only source of light. 

John sat still and tried not to think too loud, hoping Sherlock’s brain was big enough to get them out of this. The silence stretched out, and John felt his adrenaline ebb away. 

_“John.”_

This _John_ didn’t match any of Sherlock’s previous _Johns_ and sent a flood of adrenaline back into John’s system. “Yes, Sherlock?” 

“I take it that was sufficiently different from my usual tone for you to not know what I was going to ask?” 

“That’s what you’re over there thinking about?” 

“I need a distraction.” 

“You cannot be bored! Moriarty is chasing us down, the press is after us, hired killers on our street, warrants for our arrests, somebody’s been spilling your life story and you’re still bored!” 

A huff of breath, as if Sherlock was offended by John’s words. 

Maybe it was a bit harsh, John mused, since Sherlock hadn’t said bored. “You need a distraction, like playing the violin, to help you think.” 

“Very good, John.” 

“I don’t think Kitty plays.” 

“Obviously. Did you see her instep?” 

“Not where my eyes went, no.” 

“Not a distraction to me.” 

“What would you have me do? Lights and telly will let her know somebody’s in the flat and she’ll call the cops before coming in. I’d dance a jig for you, but as we’re handcuffed together you’d have to keep up.” 

“I have an idea.” 

“I’m sure you do.” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, knew he didn’t need to. 

“What’s your idea then?” 

“It’ll really offend Kitty when she finds out, but she won’t find out while we’re here.” 

“Like that, as we owe her a bad turn or two.” 

“Yes, and you’d do anything to make sure the enemy didn’t win.” 

“Well, anything in reason.” 

“This is reasonable, you’ll even enjoy it.” 

“Not if you never tell me.” 

“John, let’s have sex.” 

Silence stretched out again, as John worked that around his head. And used his non-handcuffed hand to pinch any interest out of his cock. 

“Nope, sorry, you’re going to have to explain that one to me.” 

“Let’s have kinky, handcuffed sex on our enemy’s couch. It’ll distract me, you’ll enjoy it and she’ll have mysterious stains to deal with.” 

“That’s cruel, really.” 

“So is putting my life on the front page.” 

“Fair point. But, Sherlock, sex is a big deal and can really change a relationship.” 

“Interesting.” 

“Yes, interesting. I know you don’t do relationships, but even being flatmates is a relationship.” 

“That’s not what’s interesting.” 

“What is?” 

“You didn’t object because you’re not gay, or that you’ve never thought of me that way, just started expressing concern over how this will affect our future. Almost as if you’d thought about how a romantic relationship with me would change things.” 

John didn’t answer, knowing any answer would prove Sherlock right. 

“John, I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“Are you sure…” John didn’t get to finish his question about the advisability of this action, as even in the dark Sherlock had honed in on his lips like a lip seeking missile. 

In the case of missiles, deploy heat expelling countermeasures, or so John had been taught. His handcuffed hand forced Sherlock’s hand down to Sherlock’s trousers, undoing the fly. A new source of heat emerged into the flat, having its own missile shape, and John shut down the part of his brain capable of continuing that metaphor. Or was it a simile? Sherlock moaned, shutting down most of John’s brain. 

John managed to get his trousers open one handed and had just pulled his very hard cock out of his pants when Sherlock pressed his body forward. They both moaned as friction was introduced into the occasion. Breaking the kiss and shifting his hips, Sherlock scooted far enough forward to press their cocks together. John pumped his hips once, automatically and Sherlock took this as a hint. As Sherlock began to move up and down, his cock experienced the feel of Sherlock’s bunched up clothes against the softness and hardness of John’s cock. 

A mild epiphany struck John, and he realized his secret fantasy was coming true, on an enemy’s couch and it was too dark to properly see Sherlock as he fell apart. A pause in his counter thrusting allowed John to make a decision. This was not going according to fantasy, which meant it was time to improvise. Grabbing that lithe body, John held and kissed Sherlock as he lowered him to the couch. With Sherlock’s back on the cushions, John kissed his way down a long torso, teasing nipples and flesh as he slowly went. When Sherlock’s pubic hairs tickled his chin, John found the missile there a silo. 

“Oh, _John!_ ” Sherlock was having his own epiphany and coming up with new ways to say _John_ , apparently. He tried out a few more iterations before settling on screaming it out as he came. 

John sat up a little, trying to wank while Sherlock recovered. Being left handed, learning to wank with the right after being shot had been interesting. And now his right hand was cuffed to the man who’d upped John ‘Three Continents’ Watson’s libido. 

“No.” Sherlock muttered as he returned to some semblance of brain function. “Mine.” 

Not a particularly helpful explanation, but it gave John a few ideas for later. Ideas that were jostled when Sherlock somehow sat up and knocked John back at the same time. Then Sherlock dive bombed John’s cock, and John mentally shot the part of his brain making sex into military metaphors. A few strong, overenthusiastic sucks, and John was having his orgasm, coming out of it just in time to hear Sherlock speak. 

“Fucking fantastic.” Sherlock muttered darkly, sarcastically. 

John pushed him away to better glare at him. Was he pissed because they swallowed and didn’t stain Kitty’s couch? “It was your fucking idea.” 

Sherlock sat up and started rearranging his clothing. John let Sherlock use their handcuffed hands before straightening his own clothing. 

“Going to tell me what you’re so pissed about?” 

“No.” Sherlock turned to glare back out the window. 

John recognized the tone and knew he wouldn’t get an answer out of Sherlock until he was good and ready. With a sigh of resignation, John joined Sherlock in glaring out the window. After they fixed this and captured/killed Moriarty, they were going to talk about this. And shag some more, hopefully. 

Sherlock managed not to flinch at John’s angry, exasperated sigh. Not thinking about every detail of what they had just done took more effort. He had only wanted a taste of what he was missing out on, but he’d failed to account for his addictive personality. He was still processing that first taste when his body started demanding more. And, if all he suspected did come to pass, well, at least this wouldn’t ruin his friendship with John. How much of a relationship could a dead man have?


End file.
